Snapshots
by Emily3
Summary: [HAIRSPRAY 2007: LinkTracy] A series of occurences throughout the course of Link and Tracy's relationship. Seventh Snapshot: Tracy comes over to Link's house for dinner, and is introduced to Mr. John Larkin.
1. Dispatch

**A/N:** Hello, all! So this is the beginning of several one-shots in the lives of Link and Tracy; I decided that it would be better to keep them all in one place, rather than having lots and lots of one-offs. They take place in the same universe as "Affirmation", "Waiting for Tracy", and even to some extent "Two Way Street", but each occurs during a different time frame. This first one is on the silly side, but they'll range in genre from chapter to chapter.

Reviews would be absolutely fabulous, as they are what encourages me to write. Super secretly, since I'm a huge dork, I tend to re-re-re-read my old reviews when I need inspiration for new stuff. Heehee.

Enjoy!

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As much as Link Larkin hated and was disgusted by the fact that people tended to ostracize Tracy for her weight, the whole situation came with a few perks attached. For one thing, it meant that he got to be her first: first kiss, first boyfriend, first everything. He was hyper-aware that no one had ever touched her romantically before him, that no one had ever trailed their hands over her softness and _worshipped_ her before him. And that made everything so much more pure, so much more perfect than it had ever been before. 

It meant that her social life – outside of the Corny Collins show and spending time with Penny and Seaweed – was not going to be so filled to bursting that their dates had to be scheduled two weeks in advance. If he decided to drop in on her unexpectedly, nine times out of ten he would be met with a blissfully surprised smile and be ushered into her home.

It also meant that he didn't have to worry about protecting his girl from unwanted advances. Seeing Tracy's unconventional beauty took a special sort of eye to appreciate. Though it was unfortunate in some ways that no young man had ever approached her, Link couldn't help but be grateful that there was little chance of ever needing to enforce his claim over her.

At least, that was what he had thought before the Miss Teenage Hairspray Competition.

It had been only natural that, after the grand finale of the pageant, both Inez and Tracy had skyrocketed to high school fame and glory. Hordes of fans – black, white, it didn't seem to matter – had swarmed both girls on their first day back after the broadcast, and after two weeks they didn't seem to be letting up. Every day between classes, both girls were pestered six ways to Sunday to show the crowd their hot new dance moves. Link would watch with affection, slightly surprised in the beginning at the sheer _relief _he felt at not being in the spotlight. Now that he was guaranteed Tracy's attention, no one else's seemed to matter as much as it once had.

As much as their relationship was exciting and new, there was another aspect to it. Something deep and warm and comfortable, like the embrace of a person you had known for a very long time. After only two weeks, Tracy knew him better than practically anyone else in his life – and he was having the time of his life learning all about her.

Link had half-expected Amber to kick up some sort of fuss in the wake of her very public humiliation, but no sort of confrontation had ever arose. The ex-queen bee was neither vindictive nor especially friendly after the pageant; instead, she seemed to be perpetually confused at some unknown mystery. Inexplicably, this new Amber spent a great deal more of her time staring with determined confusion into nothing than gossiping with her former friends. The results were pleasant enough, though: after second break yesterday, she had shot both of them a rather dazed but genuine grin for no apparent reason.

But as happy as Link was that his little lady was finally getting the attention she deserved, with the public's renewed interest in his girl, Link was concerned about an unexpected problem coming to surface. And in third period History, it became very clear to the slick-haired teen that such a problem had arisen in the form of Bobby Miller.

Link supposed he couldn't blame Bobby Miller for falling head over heels for Tracy after seeing her dance at the Miss Teenage Hairspray Pageant – after all, he had fallen for her, too. All-dolled up in that chequered dress with her hair swishing around her; as far as Link was concerned, it was a miracle he didn't have to fight off half the male population of Baltimore. But surely the other boy had witnessed his and Tracy's on-screen kiss, must know that she was off the market – they hadn't exactly tried to be discreet. No: this guy was trying to edge in on his girl, and he needed to be chased off.

Since the brown-haired boy sat one row ahead of him, Link had a clear view of him all throughout History class. From start to finish, he watched the boy in question send simpering look after simpering look at the back of Tracy's head. Bobby gazed dreamily at her swishy black hair, not taking a single note or ever asking a question. Link was almost sure he had heard the other boy sigh at one point.

It had to be dealt with – immediately.

He covertly sent Tracy a note containing a cheerful fib about having some work to finish up after class, suggesting that she leave with Seaweed for the show's taping instead of wait for him. Kids who were on the Council were excused from having a final class of the day, and a bus always came to pick up those without transportation to the studio. When the bell rang, she shot him a smile as she walked out the door, waving the piece of paper to indicate that she had received his message. He smiled back, making a show of taking a long time to pack up his supplies. He waited forty seconds after she left the room, and then proceeded stealthily to the hallway where he knew Bobby Miller's locker was located.

Link sized him up as he fumbled with his books. Objectively, Bobby was actually quite a handsome guy – albeit on the short side and with rather lacklustre hair. But still, he was respectable-looking. He felt a sudden swell of pride at the sort of fella his girl was reeling in, but squelched that sentiment down. What he was about to do would require a decided lack of compassion.

"Hey, Bobby my boy!" Link called across the hall, his tone of voice a good impression of affable.

Bobby's whole body seemed to seize up; he spun around to face the call, dropping _The Wonders of Mathematics: Volume II_ on his foot in the process.

"L-Link Larkin?" the tussle-haired boy asked in disbelief, apparently shocked that the most popular boy in school was not only talking to him, but seemed to _know _his _name_. A look of panic crossed over his face, but was quickly replaced with a carefully nonchalant expression. He cleared his throat to hide the stutter, and then began again in a smoother, less-squeaky voice.

"Oh, hey there Link. What's happenin'?"

The two sharp blasts of the late bell rang shrilly throughout the school. There were very few people left in the hall now, only a few stragglers darting hastily into their classrooms. Bobby looked momentarily concerned about being late, but seemed to decide that concern was uncool and resumed his nonchalant expression.

Link stepped across the now-empty hall and stopped about a foot and a half away from the brown-haired boy. He really was quite short, part of his brain mused idly. Link was by no means a giant, but seemed to tower over him nonetheless.

"Well," Link started in a flippant tone. "I noticed you looking at that girl today – Tracy, is it?" At her name, Bobby's eyes glazed over slightly. "You like her?"

"Oh, yes, Link. I sure do!" he exclaimed. "I saw her dancin' on the Corny Collins pageant – well, most of it, I had to take care of my baby sister at the end – and she was amazing! She's got these big brown eyes, and she looks like the perfect little bundle to cuddle up… to..." At Link's raised eyebrow he trailed off, then coughed again. "I mean, yeah, she's swell."

"Oh, really?" Link asked, trying very hard indeed to not show how close to laughing he was.

Bobby nodded, but then looked slightly confused.

"Say, why are you askin', Link?"

He felt a surge of empathy – if rather amused empathy – at the scruffy-haired kid staring up at him all eager. Why, the guy hadn't seen his and Tracy's finale kiss on the show, and he didn't seem like the sort to be highly connected on the rumour mill. He probably didn't even know that Trace was taken – and Link could hardly hate the guy for liking her. After all, she _was_ the perfect little bundle to cuddle up to.

Still, a friendly warning couldn't hurt.

"Well," Link said carefully. "It just so happens that Ms. Turnblad and I are goin' steady."

At his words Bobby's smile fell off his face in record time, and all of the blood seemed to drain from his face at once.

"Now then." Link tapped the shorter boy lightly on the shoulder with his fingertips. He crashed backwards into the lockers as though he had been shoved. Internally, Link grinned: it wasn't very often that he got to play the tough guy, with his slim dancer's frame and pretty face.

"Now then," he said again. "You seem like a nice guy, but it's my job to protect little Miss Tracy, and she just doesn't need to be unnecessarily confused or concerned over something like this." Bobby's eyes were comically wide as he spoke. "So, despite your excellent taste in women –" Link shot him a typical Larkin Grin, "—I'm gonna have to ask you to let it go this time, okay?"

Bobby nodded shakily.

"Excellent." Link removed his fingers from the other boy's shoulder. Once the touch was gone, it was like he was free from some sort of imprisonment. He started gathering his books together erratically.

"Sorry, Link – I mean Mr. Larkin – I mean. Um. I'm just gonna – it won't happen again."

And with that, Bobby Miller grabbed _The Wonders of Mathematics: Volume II _off of his foot and sped off down the hallway.

Link chuckled, smoothing the sides of his carefully sculpted hair with the palms of his hands. He closed and locked Bobby's locker since the other boy had forgotten -- because really, there was no need to be mean about the whole thing – and began to walk toward his Cadillac, hands in his pockets and whistling "You Belong to Me" cheerfully to the empty hallway.


	2. Smiling and Dancing

**A/N:** Wow. You guys – I'm so, so blissfully happy about the overwhelming feedback from the first chapter. Thank you so much for your reviews and comments; they were definitely the reason I was able to produce this chapter so quickly. This snapshot takes place about two and a half weeks after the pageant, contains some implications of Amber/Duane (the black boy that Amber checks out after the pageant; I'm stickin' with the name I've given him), and is still sitting pretty on a K+ rating.

I meant to ask, though: a couple of the later snapshots that I've planned out have some rather… well. Sexy content. Could you tell me if you think it would be appropriate to post something not too terribly explicit but still on the sexier side under an M rating, or should I just link to these on livejournal? I'd really value your opinions. Thank you!

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Smiling and dancing on the Corny Collins show was a whole lot more difficult than most people gave it credit for. The live recordings that took place every weekday weren't so bad, although they could be a bit tense if someone forgot their footing or let slip a word that was 'inappropriate for television'. And even if grinning continuously for such a long time tended to give people a sore jaw, at least the recordings were only an hour long. 

No, it was the practices and rehearsals that could be problematic. Five days a week – Monday to Thursday evenings as well as on Sunday – two-hour long rehearsals were held to prepare for the next day's show. New dances and songs were repeated over and over to eliminate all chance of error while on city-wide television, and the Council members as well as Corny himself were expected to come in full formal wardrobe. Since this often included high heels for ladies, female members often left these sessions nursing their strained feet.

Fridays played host to ballroom dance technique classes after the recording. Not only did the Council members perfect their New Yorker steps for the cha cha and promenades for the foxtrot during these, but they also practiced more television-oriented things like "how to smile energetically but still look dignified during waltzes".

And though it was sometimes frustrating when practices were scheduled during school hours and the situation had to be explained to annoyed teachers, it was the Saturday practices that were dreaded most of all. Even Tracy Turnblad, one of the most impassioned dancers on the show, had quickly lost enthusiasm for them. Saturday practices took place from 8:00am to 2:00pm with one hour for lunch and two fifteen-minute breaks, resulting in a whopping five and a half hours of straight dancing. The only good thing about them was that less formal, more comfortable clothes were allowed: girls came adorned in t-shirts paired with culottes, long capris, or swing skirts. Boys abandoned their suit jackets, rolling up the sleeves of their collared shirts and wearing looser-fitting slacks than usual.

Rehearsals and practices hadn't seemed to let up even as classes ended and summer rolled gloriously in: in fact, they had increased. Following Velma's firing Corny had temporarily taken up the reins in terms of rehearsals, though it was very clear that he was more of a dancer than an instructor. After the third awkwardly-taught Friday ballroom class in a row, Mr. Spritzer had made a cheerful announcement to the newly integrated Council. Though it had taken the station two and a half weeks, they had finally succeeded in finding a new choreographer – a man called Mr. Christopher Flynn.

The kids all cheered at this, fed up as they were with Corny's lessons ending in useful statements like "if you want to get out of the underarm turn, ladies, you're on your own because I can't remember how". They all sobered, however, as he went on to say that Mr. Flynn had requested a special 'getting to know you' Saturday session that would stretch from the usual 8:00am until 7:00pm at the earliest.

It had been with great reluctance, therefore, that the cast had shuffled into the studio – and it was wearing expressions of pain and exhaustion that they departed from it eleven hours later.

"I hurt _everywhere_," moaned Link as the Council members limped collectively toward the station parking lot.

"Penny's gonna kill me," Seaweed croaked weakly, clutching Inez's sleeping form to his chest. They had gone over the dance set for 'Twistin' the Night Away', for which he sung the lead vocals, so many times that he was barely able to get the words out. "I called yesterday her to let her know that our date was off for tonight, but her mother picked up. She didn't sound too keen to pass on the message."

"Oh, don't worry, Seaweed. Penny won't kill you," Tracy reassured him as she hobbled down the long hallway, trying to keep her weight off of her feet. She blinked. Her best friend did have a tendency to release her pent-up aggression at odd times. "I think."

Seaweed groaned. The sound was lost in the sea of similar exclamations of discomfort and frustration emitted by the members walking with them. Darla had hurt her ankle during a tango set, and Iggy had fallen right off the stage when he had attempted to do the Mashed Potato a tad too vigorously near the edge. Inez stirred briefly, arms wrapped tight around her big brother's neck as he carried her, and then fell back to sleep.

"Seriously," said Link, hurrying to his girlfriend's side and wrapping an arm around her waist to help her shuffle along. "Are they even allowed to keep us here that long? It must be against some rule, or some law, or… or somethin'."

Link pushed the outside door open, and they hung back so that he could hold it for the rest of the kids. They muttered half-hearted thanks, clearly just as exhausted as the four of them were.

"Mr. Flynn seemed nice," Tracy piped up positively as they waited for the parade of disgruntled teens to finish. "If, you know. A little enthusiastic."

"_Enthusiastic_?" Link asked in disbelief. He looked down at Tracy's head incredulously. "Trace, we went over the routine for 'Runaround Sue' _five times_."

"And did y'hear what he kept calling out during the partner dances?" Seaweed asked, and Link let go of the door as the last trickle of people exited. He imitated Mr. Flynn's ridiculously upbeat tone. "'Children, children, keep your smiles on! A smile a day keeps the doctor away!'"

The two boys chuckled.

"He's committed to his work!" Tracy protested, but there was a smile on her face, too. Link kissed the top of her head.

"C'mon, darlin'" he said. "I'll take you home."

They waved goodbye to Seaweed – and, though she didn't know it, to Inez – as Maybelle's beat-up Chevy flashed its lights at the siblings from across the street. As Seaweed hauled his practically comatose sister away, the couple headed toward Link's car. On the way they passed Amber and a black boy nicknamed DL – short for Duane Lawrence – sitting on a park bench together. Amber's slight body was slumped fully against DL's side, and her head was lolling on his shoulder: she appeared to have nodded off. DL appeared to be quite pleased with this development, and had a dark arm wrapped around her tiny waist. Both Link and Tracy made a point of not staring.

Once they had clambered into the Cadillac and pulled out of the parking lot, though, Link let out an amused chuckle.

"I know," said Tracy, turning in her seat to see if she could catch a glimpse of the couple as they drove away. "I thought Amber would be the last person to… well. Embrace integration. I really did." She paused. "Is that a terrible thing to say?"

"No," Link replied flatly. "You know, every once and a while I think of making a comment to her about eating her words. And then I think better of it." He turned and winked at her, the act not as effective as usual since his eyes were fighting to stay open. "Did you hear what happened to Debra Witowsky?"

"Ooh, yes." Tracy winced. Debra Witowsky, a girl who had been in Tracy's math class this year, had apparently made some sort of snide comment to Amber at a shop yesterday. Something about her standards dropping. Amber had responded by tearing her apart so viscously that onlookers had started catcalling. The blonde had finished her tirade by slapping Debra full across the face and stomping away in a huff.

Through an odd series of fatigue-induced leaps in thought, this reminded Tracy of something her mother had commented on the night before.

"Link, I meant to –" She broke off into a long yawn, hastily bring her hand up to her mouth. Link glanced over at her affectionately. "Sorry. I meant to ask you; my mama said last night that you came over to the house during the march." She gave him a look. "You never told me that."

Link stiffened, looking pointedly straight ahead at the road. Tracy tried to figure this out, but gave up; her sleep-addled brain was too tired to process the action.

"She said that, did she?" he asked carefully.

"Mmmhmm. Said you were really worried about me, so she took you in and fed you." She gave him another look, this one allowing a rare glimpse of the unconditional adoration she had held for him when he was only a figure on the TV. "That's really sweet, Link."

He relaxed, turning to give her a patented Larkin Grin just as they pulled in outside her house.

"Well, I couldn't just let my best girl get chased by the police without doing somethin', now could I?" He turned and swooped in for a kiss, hand immediately reaching up to her hair, which she had pulled up and tied back with a bow to keep it out of her eyes. As his velvety tongue stroked across her bottom lip, asking permission, he tugged on the ribbon, and Tracy's hair fell down around her shoulders, uncombed and tangled. Link began smoothing it back gently as she opened her mouth to him, kissing him back, giddy with a happiness that seemed to fill her from her head to her toes.

When they pulled apart, Tracy was smiling. "Come inside and sit down," she said. "I'm sure my mama will make us a snack."

"In a minute," he replied, and leaned fully across the seat so that he could wrap his arms around her waist and pull her into a hug.

Tracy smiled against his neck. It felt incredibly good to be held close like this, to feel Link's slow and steady breath against her skin. They swayed gently back of forth, the movement barely noticeable in the comfortable silence. She could smell him, too, she realized. His smell wasn't that of a particular cologne or aftershave, which she had almost been surprised about in the beginning. No, he smelled warm and pleasant, a combination of soap and sweat and Ultra Clutch that was unique to him.

An image drifted into her mind, a memory from earlier that day. Second break, just after they had finished the third dance set for 'Runaround Sue'. Link, collapsing onto one of the benches, his chest heaving with pants of exertion. He'd tilted his head against the wall, eyes shut, as a few beads of perspiration had slid down his forehead.

She wondered if he would look like that when he was –

Her eyes snapped open. Oh, no. No, no, no. She reminded herself forcefully that she was a lady, that she was certainly not supposed to be thinking things like… like _that_ after only two and a half weeks.

And yet she felt a strong urge to go back to memory, to let those thoughts flow unhindered to their conclusion, no matter what she knew she was supposed to feel.

She wondered if that was weird.

Tracy made an attempt to focus on Link's breathing again, only to realize that her boyfriend's breath had gone a little _too_ steady.

She shook him. He didn't move except to mumble incoherently and nuzzle her neck.

"Link," Tracy muttered into his ear, shaking him again.

"Mmmff."

She raised her voice a little, shaking him harder. "Link, wake up."

Link started, jerking back ungracefully.

"I'm awake," he replied sluggishly, rubbing his eyes. Tracy giggled. He looked too cute to be allowed, far too cute to be any kind of school heartthrob.

Link yawned widely, then blinked blearily at her for a moment. "I _am_ awake," he repeated triumphantly.

"Of course you are. Come on inside," Tracy said with a teasing tone. "I don't trust you at the wheel of that car."

Link mumbled something in response, but followed his girl obediently to her doorstep. She twisted the door, found it unlocked as usual, as swung it open.

"Ma, I'm home!" she called as the two of them shuffled in.

"Tracy!" came Edna Turnblad's shout from the living room. "It's so late, I can't believe your little practice went on so long!" She shuffled into view, halfway through folding someone's nightgown. "Oh, hello Link. It's nice to see you."

"Nice to see you, too, Mrs. Turnblad," he responded, albeit a bit dozily; he'd clearly learned his lesson from the winking incident.

"Could you make us a snack, ma?" Tracy asked as she pulled Link into the living room, both teenagers collapsing onto the green sofa. "We're exhausted."

"Well, all right Miss Turnblad, but I expect a 'thank-you' afterwards." Edna grinned cheekily, then skipped happily into the kitchen next door. Ever since the pageant, she had been walking with a new spring in her step.

"I can't imagine what would take so much time as that you have to be at the station for eleven whole hours," chided Edna as she pulled out the bread, lettuce, ham, and cheese from the refrigerator. "This Flynn fellow must be a real rough customer. It's crazy to try to keep kids in one place that long, they'd be hanging from the rafters!"

She used her bread knife to slice the loaf into four pieces, scooped them onto plates and began to add the sandwich fixings. "It's silly to keep you all cooped up in that dark studio all summer, I say. Kids should be at the lake, or on the town, or… I don't know. Drag racing, or something." She added the final toppers of bread and picked up both plates to carry them out.

"Link, I wasn't sure how you liked yours, so I –" She cut off abruptly at the scene that faced her.

Her daughter sat slouched, her head resting against the head of the couch, fast asleep. Link was asleep, too, only he wasn't using the sofa as a pillow. His body was cuddled up right into Tracy's, and his head was nestled softly in her bust.

Edna hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, let alone what to do with the now-unnecessary sandwiches. After a moment's consideration she returned to the kitchen, replaced the sandwiches inside the refrigerator, and removed the small note Tracy had tacked beside the phone a few days ago. On it was the Larkin household phone number.

Edna sighed as she picked up the receiver and began to slowly dial the number. She would call Link's father to tell him his son would be late home, and then wait for Wilbur finish up in the joke shop. _He_ could figure out what to do.


	3. Weighty Interruption

**A/N:** Hey, guys! Thank you so much for your comments about the previous chapter: I'm immensely flattered that you seem to think I write a good Link! His voice is the one I always fret over, so your reviews are very encouraging.

This chapter takes place about three weeks into Link and Tracy's relationship. I'm sorry about taking a bit longer than expected to post it. I've had it written out in my head for a long time, a silly and happy little chapter. But then there was a tragedy in real life, and well. I haven't been feeling very silly or happy in the past week. So thank you all for your understanding: this was the first time all week I've been able to write, and I'm really happy to have got anything done at all.

The author **charm-your-way-out** has already used this idea in a fic – one of my favourites! – but since I had already planned to have a chapter with this issue, I figured I would go ahead with it. You should check her fic out, too!

Enjoy!

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The grey, indistinct place between being awake and being asleep was Link's favourite time of day. And since he very rarely got to sleep in during the school year, what with Saturday practices and school on weekdays, the Sundays he was able to lie in past ten were usually his favourite time of the whole week. But ever since summer had swept in, hot and humid and promising a great deal more leisure, Link's time spent lying lazily in bed had increased considerably. 

It was glorious.

He rolled over, snuggling deeper into the covers. Nothing could ever hurt him during these foggy, half-awake stretches.

An image of Tracy from their drive-in date the previous night drifted hazily into his mind, and Link smiled stupidly into his blankets. She'd looked real gorgeous, with her hair all pulled back by a ribbon and wearing a boldly-patterned dress that showed more leg than would ever be allowed at school. He remembered whispering how beautiful she looked against her lips as 'The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance' played unnoticed on the silver screen in front of them

Link had been about to drift off into a lazy dream about Tracy – admittedly, most likely one that featured the boldly-patterned dress much less prominently – when he heard the sound of the telephone ringing downstairs. It started him awake for a moment, and he briefly considered leaving the soft comfort of his bed to answer it – but no. No one would be calling for him this early on a Sunday; it was probably just one of his father's business associates. He pulled the covers up around his chin and once more attempted to fall into what promised to be a very pleasant dream indeed.

After a few moments had passed, though, Link heard muffled footfalls on the stairs and coming down the hallway. He opened his eyes just in time to see his father open the door without knocking and lean in. John Larkin was wearing a long grey dressing gown, and his eyes – much to Link's quiet displeasure – looked extremely blood-shot.

"Phone. Downstairs. Your girl." His dad broke off into a wide yawn and wandered sleepily out of Link's room and back down the stairs.

Link blinked in surprise. His girl? That could only mean Tracy – but why would she be calling so early on a Sunday morning? He shrugged off his lingering sleepiness; if he had to be forced out of bed, then a wake-up call from Tracy was the best-case scenario. He shimmied out from under the covers, carefully tucking his feet into the slippers at the bedside. As he headed for the door, he grabbed his own dressing gown and pulled it on over his matching button-down pyjama shirt and pants.

By the time he arrived in the living room where the telephone was kept, his father was nowhere to be seen: he had probably climbed right back into bed after delivering his message. A tiny, uncool flutter of excitement in his stomach, Link raised the receiver up to his head.

"Hey there, baby doll. What's happenin'?"

A loud, keening noise of distress was shrieked into his ear in response. He jerked the phone away from his ear as a torrent of words exploded from within it.

"Link, I don't know what to do! It's horrible, and I don't understand, and – and –" Another wail of distress interrupted Tracy's words. When she finished, he could hear her sniffing slightly.

"Trace, what's wrong? Are you all right?" Link asked, flabbergasted. He'd never heard her like this, and had very little idea of what to do.

"No, I'm n-not all right."

Totally at a loss, he said the first logical thing that popped into his mind. "Do – do you want me to come over?"

There was a pause. He could hear more sniffing noises in the background. "Uh-huh," Tracy finally answered, voice sounding very small.

"Right. Right, I'll be over real soon. Bye."

Link hung up, wide-eyed. For a moment he stared at the telephone in utter disbelief before jolting back to himself. He launched himself up the stairs, feet pounding on the floor hard enough to wake his father below, and flew into his room. He changed in record time, almost forgetting to brush his teeth and running out with his shirt unbuttoned. When he reached the front hallways, he jammed his feet into his shoes so sloppily that his heels hung over the backs, grabbed the car keys, and hurled himself out the door and into his Cadillac.

During the ten-minute drive to Tracy's house, Link couldn't stop horrible scenarios from churning in his now wide-awake brain. That Tracy had sounded so uncontrollably _upset_ made him feel extremely sick and apprehensive; he couldn't help but go over all the things that could possibly make her sound like that. _The show's been re-integrated. Corny and Maybelle were fired. Someone hurt Inez. Penny and Seaweed split up. Oh, god, Tracy's _parents_ split up_. Link had _no_ idea what he could say to her if that was the case, and he hoped to high hell it wasn't. He'd been over to Tracy's house for dinner twice now, and had secretly loved the way her mom and dad always interacted with each other. Light, teasing – even slightly flirty. He couldn't imagine the two of them ever divorcing. His mind flashed back quickly to the aftermath of his own parents' separation, how he hadn't wanted to talk to anyone or hear any words of comfort. A sharp stab of fear made him grip the steering wheel tighter.

He arrived at Tracy's house without incident – which had been a close call, since he'd been so worried and distracted he had almost run right over a pair of beatniks crossing the street. Ten seconds after parking he was outside her door, knocking hard on the stained wood, slightly out of breath.

The door opened at once. Mrs. Turnblad stood in the frame, her girth blocking his view into the house. She had a look of extreme anxiety on her face.

"Mrs. Turnblad, Tracy –"

He didn't need to finish; she moved at once to allow him inside, the look on her face never wavering.

"She's in her room down the hall, Link. But I warn you – it's not a pretty picture in there."

Her words did nothing to ease his apprehension. He shucked his shoes and dashed down the hallway, not even stopping to say hello to Mr. Turnblad, who was hovering helplessly in the living room. When he reached Tracy's door, the location of which he already knew, he hammered his fist against the wood in a preliminary knock and opened the door without waiting for her to respond.

"_Link_!"

A short, messy haired blur slammed into his chest as soon as the door swung open. Link made a coughing noise as the wind was knocked out of him. Tracy's arms wrapped around his middle and squeezed, which didn't help matters. He patted the top of her head awkwardly as she clung to him.

"Trace, what's happened?"

Tracy groaned against his chest and pulled away, covering her face with her hands. Link shut the door to give them some more privacy – he figured Mr. and Mrs. Turnblad couldn't get upset, considering the circumstances – and asked again. "Darlin', what's wrong?"

Link realized abruptly that Tracy was still wearing her pyjamas: a blue nightdress patterned with lighter blue puffs of cloud. Before he could fully appreciate exactly how adorable this was, though, she began to talk.

"I noticed last week," she began. Her voice was muffled by her hands, which she still had pressed against her face. "I didn't think anything of it. I mean, it changes for everyone all the time, right? But then today I woke up and my favourite skirt didn't fit, it just kept falling down, and my blouses are really loose and my dresses are too big and I look horrible in everything."

Tracy had lowered her hands now, but had taken to pacing the length of her bedroom instead. When she finally stopped her movement she looked up at him, eyes wide and – to his horror – beginning to fill with tears. She must have sensed his confusion.

"I'm loosing weight, Link!" she cried. "And I don't understand, because I'm eating just as much as I did before. And… and I'm just scared. Because what if you don't think I'm pretty anymore, or people don't like me on the show as much, and I don't_ want_ to buy new clothes." She seemed to have run out of steam, because as soon as she finished she collapsed wearily back onto her bed, looking exhausted.

Link was at a complete loss. Never, in all girls he had dated, had any of them _ever_ gone to him about something like this. He wondered for a split second if it was 'that time of the month', but shoved the thought forcefully away at once: he really, _really_ didn't want to think about that.

He took a steadying breath. Seeing as comfort seemed like the most likely response, he sat gingerly next to his Tracy and tilted her chin toward him.

"Look at me, Trace." Her brown eyes, still slightly watery, moved upwards to meet his. "Baby, do you know how many hours a week you spend dancing?"

"I don't know. A lot?" she mumbled, sounding very young.

"Over twenty-five hours _per week_, that's how many. Trace, it's no wonder that you've lost some weight: for the past two months, your exercise level has gone through the roof! I know I sure lost a few pounds when I first joined the show."

She blinked. "Honest?"

Link smiled. "Always." The hand that wasn't holding her chin began to stroke along the softness of her arm, which, now that she mentioned it, _was_ looking a little slimmer than usual. He met her eyes again. "Baby doll, change is always scary. But I want you to know: I think that you are the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on, and what you weigh is never gonna change that. All right?"

Tracy's lip trembled, but this time it was not with sadness. "Oh, Link." She leaned in close and rested her head against his chest. He felt a massive sense of relief as his hands stroked over her tangled hair: he'd done it. He'd said the right thing, diffused her anxiety like a particularly terrifying bomb. Part of him felt extremely triumphant.

He felt her laugh against his chest, and she pulled away, wiping her eyes. "Oh, gosh. I'm so sorry, Link. I can't believe I called you about something like this; I feel really silly."

"Don't. I'm glad you called," he said, and meant it.

Tracy looked up at him adoringly – but then her eyes widened, and she sat up straight in what appeared to be shock. She was now looking at him as though seeing him properly for the first time.

"Link. Your – your hair!"

"What?" He reached up, expecting to feel the usual stiff precision of his perfectly styled 'do. Instead, his fingers ran through the soft, sleep-tousled hair that he was used to seeing only very early in the morning. He felt his face redden: in his rush to get over to Tracy's house, he had completely forgotten to style his hair. "Oh."

Tracy was now reaching up to touch the dishevelled mess, her fingers combing easily through the strands. Her eyes remained wide in amazement. Link had to fight to stop himself from squirming; it felt very odd indeed to have someone else's fingers drifting through his hair like this. It felt remarkably personal, and he would have asked her to stop if it hadn't also felt very, very good.

"It's so soft," she murmured, and he felt a dopey grin spread across his face. Man, but those fingers felt good.

It was at this moment that Tracy seemed to realize that she was only wearing a nightdress. Her hand, much to his disappointment, shot back from his head and covered her chest. She looked pink-faced and flustered. A slow, sly smile began to form on Link's face.

"So," he started. "Since I'm already here, how's about you get changed –" He gave her a pointed once over, making her cheeks go ever redder, "— and we go for a late breakfast?"

"But –" She gestured to his hair, which was sting laying floppily across his forehead. "Don't you…?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me as much as it did before. I mean, yeah, I look kinda ridiculous, but one time out like this can't hurt."

A stunningly beautiful smile spread across Tracy's face, and she seemed to glow with happiness. It was certainly a far cry from when he'd first entered her room. She nodded at him, then waited.

And waited.

"Link!" she exclaimed, pretending to be scandalized. "You have to leave my room before I can change!"

"Aw, you caught me." Link leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then stood up and headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned and gave her a cheeky look.

"Or, you know, I could always stay." She chucked a pillow at him, and he ducked outside and shut the door, laughing.


	4. Third Time Around

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you for all of your kind and reassuring words about the tragedy. I really appreciate your understanding; it means a whole lot to me. :) Thanks for saying that I don't need to rush to update.

Luckily, I'd already written this chapter a little while ago, so here we are! To people who say I write in keeping with the era – thank you so much, I try very hard. Although I admit this has a great deal to do with me shouting questions down the hallway to my mother at regular intervals. Questions like, "Mum, what was public opinion of Vietnam in 1962?" or "Mum, what did you used to say to people in greeting when you were trying to be cool and failing?" :D

I hope you enjoy – and if you do, your reviews are very much appreciated! (I admit it: I'm a review whore.)

* * *

"So, Link, tell me; you've heard about all of the hubbub going on over in Vietnam lately. Lots of guerrilla activity, and word in the shop is that Kennedy's been sending more military over. What do you think of it all?" 

Link froze, pork chop and asparagus-laden fork half way to his mouth. He glanced quickly down the table before shoving the food into his mouth all at once; if nothing else, it would buy him some time. Chewing as slowly as possible, he strained to think of an answer to Mr. Turnblad's question that wouldn't get him in trouble.

It was his third time coming over to Tracy's house for dinner – not counting when he had shown up in the middle of the night, pounding on the Turnblad family's front door, sick with worry for a girl who wasn't his. He honestly enjoyed the visits: the meals were always raucous, full of teasing and chatter and thinly veiled flirting between Mr. and Mrs. Turnblad. They were a far cry from the dinners he and his dad usually shared at the too-big dining room table, filled with simple statements and long, void-like pauses. No: it was wonderful to get a peek into Tracy's family life, to see the home that had raised such a fine little lady.

On his first visit, Mrs. Turnblad had fed them all full to bursting with pot roast with gravy while Link had jumped through the usual meet-the-parents hoops. They had asked him about his school subjects and how long he had been on the Corny Collins Show, and Mr. Turnblad had then regaled them all with his latest joke shop customer anecdote. The second time, he had explained through mouthfuls of chicken and zucchini all about his love of Marlon Brando movies, how after seeing him in 'Guys and Dolls' he had wanted nothing more than to be as cool as Sky Masterson. Afterward, he and Tracy had tag-teamed a recount of how a woman in the street had walked straight into a signpost after seeing Seaweed and Penny kiss on the way to the cinema that day. It had only stood to reason that tonight would bring out questions about either politics or religion.

He just hadn't quite expected them quite so soon. Or so blatant.

He swallowed down the now thoroughly-chewed food and opened his mouth to rail off a typical non-offensive, non-committal 'father' response ("Gosh, Mr. Turnblad, I don't know. They sure don't teach us about that sort of thing in school!"), when he caught Tracy's eyes from across the table. She stared at him, eyes big, brown, and earnest. She had a patiently expectant look on her face, and her head was tilted slightly to the side like a small animal.

Link realized all at once that he couldn't lie with her there. Not with her looking at him like that, all innocence and curiosity. He couldn't stand the thought of re-explaining his stance to her later, trying to make her understand why he hadn't been honest to her folks. Especially not today, with the knowledge of what he intended to do later burning a hole in his thoughts.

Link closed his mouth, cleared his throat, and started again.

"Well, Mr. Turnblad," he began hesitantly. "To be honest, I think it's a bad sign. I mean, if we have a whole bunch of troops over there then it's only a matter of time before the whole thing escalates." He was gaining momentum, starting to gesticulate with his fork. "I mean, I'm seventeen; by next January, I'll be registered for the draft. I know how everyone talks about the dangers of communism and all, but I'm in no hurry to get blown up for that."

He stopped talking abruptly, shooting a look at Mr. Turnblad to try and catch his reaction: he had always seemed to be a fairly open-minded father, but Link didn't know him nearly well enough to predict where he would stand on an issue like this. The older man was nodding slightly, prodding his peas so that they tumbled across his plate.

"I know what you're talking, young man. This is pretty much how Korea started, and just look how that went! Nothing but trouble." Mr. Turnblad attempted to slam his fist onto the table, but lost momentum part way and ended up giving it a light thump. He just wasn't a violent man at heart.

"Oh, Wilbur, I don't know about that," said Mrs. Turnblad as she shovelled more potatoes onto Link's plate. "I mean, I believe that President Kennedy knows what's best for the country. He wouldn't make this whole thing into a war unless it had to be."

"Edna," said Mr. Turnblad patiently. "I'm not saying anything against President Kennedy. Just remember that it'll be boys Link's age on the front lines."

Mrs. Turnblad looked distressed at this, and added two more spoonfuls of peas to Link's already-teeming plate.

The conversation shifted as Tracy piped up to recount an incident in Geography that day. Mentally, Link swiped a hand across his forehead; it had been a close shave.

* * *

After dinner, Tracy had made to take the two of them into her room like she usually did; instead, Link had grabbed her hand and walked her toward the steps that lead to the Turnblad back patio. He wasn't sure if he could handle being in her room with her right now, what with the associations that came along with the last time her mother had made him pork for dinner. Even _with_ the door open, he didn't want to risk anything… inappropriate. 

He pulled the tattered lawn chair out from under the awning and they squeezed onto it, pointing out made-up constellations between bits of fluttering laundry. Once or twice they heard one of Tracy's parents open the door to check on them, but otherwise they went undisturbed. The hot night air surrounded them like a blanket tucked in around the edges. She was curled up into his side, his arm tucked securely around her shoulders, when her tone switched from playful to serious.

"Link?" she asked, voice coming from somewhere near his chest.

"Yes, darlin'?" he responded, fingers idly twirling strands of her long hair. It was very soft without the stiff layer of hairspray that had coated it until recently. The ends tickled the pads of his fingers.

"That was pretty neat of you, saying what you thought about politics and stuff to my dad. I mean, for all you knew he could have been some sort of pro-war fanatic."

He turned to down look at her, but she was still gazing pointedly at the sky above.

"What I mean to say is… I thought it was really brave of you." She bit her bottom lip softly.

Pride swelled up in his chest and warm affection spread through his whole body. She looked so beautiful, her soft pink cardigan cuddling every curve and brown eyes shiny in the moonlight. He had a desperate desire to kiss her, to hold her even closer, to let her know just how much he cared about her – but he could tell she wasn't finished talking. Link held himself back, bargaining not being able to kiss her by instead running his hand up and down her clothed arm.

She shivered at his touch, but still stared resolutely up at the sky.

"But it wasn't just brave," she continued slowly, tremor evident in her voice. "Link, only a month ago you didn't want to march in the protest –" (here his hand stopped its movements briefly) "- and look at you now! Sticking up for Seaweed when that man started hassling him yesterday, and now standing up for your ideals at my dinner table!"

She propped herself up on her elbows and leaned over him, finally meeting his eyes.

"I just… want you to know that I'm proud of you, I guess. You're showing a lot of… well, _character_, and I love every part of it."

Link couldn't resist a moment longer. He leaned up, catching her lips in a fierce kiss and wrapping one hand around the back of her neck to pull her in closer. He tugged so that she fell half on top of him, very conscious of exactly which part of her was pressed so tightly against his chest. She made a tiny noise against his lips and he felt another, far less innocent surge of warmth flood through him.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling away slightly. Both their breathing was laboured, and he could feel her warm breath against his cheek. He reached up his free hand and tucked her hair behind her ear where it had fallen forward.

"Thank you, Trace. Means a lot coming from you," he said earnestly before pulling her in for an embrace. Partly it was so that he could have a moment to steady himself against the emotions that were jolting through him too quick to identify. He had just calmed himself down when, out of nowhere, he heard his own voice murmur the words 'love you' into her hair.

He froze, wondering frantically if taking away the 'I' made it any… safer. Less big and intimidating. But when she pulled back there was a grin spread wide across her face.

"You mean that?" she asked.

"'Course," he replied, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before guiding her back into her previous position against his side. He imagined that Mrs. Turnblad's reaction to finding her daughter on top of him in a lawn chair wouldn't have been pleasant.

She nuzzled into his sweatered chest, and he could almost feel her smile against him.

"I love you too," she said, sounding the words out slowly as though saying them was a novelty. Hs heart leapt.

They stayed like that for a long while, not talking, only staring at the stars overhead. The moment was broken, though, when Link remembered all at once what he had set out to do tonight.

"Oh!" he cried out, jerking both Tracy and himself out of their happy reverie. He felt heat rush into his cheeks and was glad that it was dark out; at that moment, he felt decidedly uncool.

"Trace," he started, trying to regain his footing. "There's something I meant to give you tonight, since we've been going steady for a month and all."

She shot up beside him. "Is that something major?" she blurted out, eyes wide with surprise. "Is that some sort of secret dating thing? Was I supposed to do something? I'm sorry, I didn't know!"

Her worry was ridiculously cute. He pushed himself into a sitting position and gave her a quick kiss on the nose.

"Don't worry, babe," he said reassuringly. "You didn't miss anything; this just felt like the right time." He reached into his pocket, suddenly nervous, and pulled out the object in question: his class ring.

"Now, I wasn't sure if you'd want this seeing as how Amber had it first," he began awkwardly. Come to think of it, Susan Campbell, his girlfriend during sophomore year, had held on to the ring for a little while, too. He shook off the thought; there was no use dwelling on that. "But it felt kinda wrong holdin' onto it. So I thought that maybe you wouldn't mind…" He trailed off helplessly, not sure where to go from there.

Luckily, he didn't need to continue. Tracy reached behind her neck and unhooked her necklace's clasp, and then slid her musical note charm off and pocketed it. In its place she put his class ring. Before she could put her necklace back on, though, he took both ends of the chain from her and hooked it around her neck himself.

"I'd love to," she whispered, his arms still around her neck, and kissed him.

"Tracy Edna Turnblad!"

The two of them jerked away from each other, flushing, as Mrs. Turnblad's voice came from on top of the stairs. However, there was only so far apart they could move on such a small lawn chair. Link could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again, and Tracy was positively glowing.

"Link," said Mrs. Turnblad in a half-scandalized, half-giddy voice. "I think it's about time you head home. Tracy, we'll talk after your gentleman caller leaves."

Link shot off the lawn chair, giving his hand to Tracy to help her to her feet. They shuffled hand-in-hand up the stairs and back into the house, passing Mrs. Turnblad on the way. Gathering from the way she shot Tracy a girlishly excited look when she thought he wasn't looking, he didn't think he was in that much trouble.

"Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Turnblad." He almost instinctively gave her one of his patented winks before realizing that it would be a very bad idea indeed. Tracy pulled him continuously along by the hand until they were on her front step. After a quick kiss and an exchange of equally giddy looks, he was back in his car and driving away.

He noticed how she didn't go back inside until he was out of sight, and beamed. When he caught sight of the stupid-looking smile in the rear-view mirror, he tried in vain to run his hand along the side of his 'do and give his reflection a cool look. After a moment, the grin took over his face again.

It stayed there for the whole drive back to his house.


	5. Literary

**A/N:** Hello, everyone. :) This here be a chapter chock-a-block with literary references in the beginning. :D Sorry if there's one that you don't understand! I wanted the two of them to talk about something normal for a while – something small and unimportant that didn't have to do with changing the world. (Just so you know, Link's view on Hamlet is slightly skewed due to his own circumstances.)

It's important to note that 'Affirmation', another one of my stories, takes place after this chapter. It is _very_ important that you go read that story, otherwise the chapter after this will make very little sense. Would you like me to post 'Affirmation' again as a Snapshot for your reading convenience, or is that unnecessary?

This is a bit of a transition chapter, so I'm sorry if it's a bit awkward. It has a few elements that were necessary for later, but I had a very hard time writing it. Apologies, and I hope you can find some enjoyment.

* * *

"I just don't understand," Tracy insisted for the third time that evening. Link groaned and swung their linked hands forward particularly forcefully, making both of their arms fly wildly back and forth for a moment before nestling back between their bodies again. "Why does he have to _kill_ Claudius? He doesn't even know for sure that Claudius was the one who killed his dad – all he has to go on is a silly old ghost's word. I don't get it." 

August, which had filled the whole town with a sticky heat that seemed to press down hard on its residents, had finally faded into a golden September. It was still hot out, but within a few days, the thin layer of perspiration that had been evident on even the most diligent of beauty perfectionists had vanished. Although a break from the heat had been welcome, it had brought with it an unwelcome companion: school. Skirts past the knee were pulled grumpily from their summer resting place within closets, and hair was attacked with renewed vigour.

It was the first Sunday of the new school year and, with practice wrapped up, Link and Tracy had decided to use the rest of the day to fit in some previous date time. The afternoon had gradually faded into early evening, and the two of them had spent the past forty-five minutes walking hand-in-hand around the mid-city park's large duck pond.

Link looked down at Tracy in pretend irritation: he had been amused to discover that his girlfriend still had a very hard time thinking the worst of anyone – including, apparently, fictional characters. After misguidedly mentioning the play both had begun to read for English class, though, he was now acutely aware of that fact.

Link himself was no great shakes at English. That poet they had studied from a few years ago, T.S. Elliot, had bored him to tears with thick references to Greek gods and foreign languages – plus, he tended to lose the point of his own essays mid-way through. They had only got about three pages into the one interesting book his class had ever read – something about Rye Catchers? – when Miss Browning had shrieked out loud, declared the book pornographic, and promptly confiscated all of their copies.

But _this_ was a subject that he knew something about. It was surprisingly effortless, he reflected vaguely, to see through the clutter of 'thees' and 'thous' when he understood what the story was about.

"Darlin'," he started again, speaking very slowly. "I am going to explain this one more time, okay? And then you've got to promise me that we'll change the subject; I bring you on dates to get _away _from school, not bring it with us."

Tracy gave him a look, but nodded, giving his hand a squeeze. Link fought down the rush of giddiness at the sensation – they had been going steady for over two months now, his stomach had absolutely no business doing flip-flops – and tried to think of a more Tracy-friendly explanation. Something more modern, perhaps; his little lady had never been one to live in the past.

"All right," he began, their feet still leading them in continuous circles around the duck pond. Something relevant. "Velma Von Tussle is married to – no, no, let me finish!" he exclaimed at her appalled expression. "Velma Von Tussle is married to the same guy for, I don't know, twenty years. The fella dies. Then, only a week or two later, she remarries. What's your momma gossiping about over the ironing board?"

He looked down at his girl again to find her face screwed up in concentration. She bit down softly on her lip as she attempted to puzzle out the scenario, tried to imagine what her far less positive mother would say.

"She… well, other than saying that it was pretty sketchy for the guy to kick it like that –" She shot Link a small smile. "She'd say that Mrs. Von Tussle was canoodling on the side with the other guy." She paused. "That's it! Momma would say that Mrs. Von Tussle was having an affair, and that's why she remarried so quick… ly. Oh."

Tracy stopped walking suddenly, and Link halted as well. Her eyes were very wide.

"You mean that Hamlet thinks that his mother was having an affair with Claudius _while his father was alive! _I get it!"

"That's my girl," said Link, relieved, and kissed the top of her head. "Now can we _please_ change the subject?"

He tugged her over to a park bench, which they both plopped onto without ceremony. Link wrapped an arm around Tracy's bare shoulders and pulled her up against him: though the evening heat was still rather oppressive, the physical contact was worth it. He felt her head rest against his chest, and had been about to bring up a topic – how frustrating it was to be back at school after the unfettered summer, or perhaps what he had seen on the news about Marilyn Monroe's death by sleeping pills – when Tracy began to speak.

It was a testament to just how little Tracy censored herself, to how she always said exactly what she was thinking, when the next words out of her mouth were: "Link, how far have you gone with other girls?"

All at once, the mood changed. Big brown eyes looked up at him, and Link's whole body tensed up; what had moments before felt like a casual embrace now felt very posed and fragile. He disentangled his arm from her shoulders and, unsure of what to do with his hands, laid them tentatively in his lap. He stared pointedly at the rippling heat across the duck pond, not quite sure if he could meet her eyes.

Link had known this was coming, of course; it had only been a matter of time before the question was asked. He had been dreading it nonetheless: there was always the chance that things between them would change.

The idea was terrifying.

"You know what? Never mind," Tracy was rambling next to him, voice sounding worried. "I wasn't sure if I was supposed to ask, but I just kind of wanted to know, and –"

"No." His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. "It's a good question. You have a right to know something like that." Link chanced a glance over at her, but turned away at once. Her face, filled with concern and anxiety, was so pretty it made him feel sick with guilt. Trying to focus on the ducks swimming aimlessly in front of him instead of on the girl at his side, he took a steadying breath.

"You know Susan Campbell – she went to our school for sophomore year? We went steady for a little over ten months before her family moved to Chicago." He didn't wait for any acknowledgement before continuing. "There was Becky Anderson: you know her from the show. Brunette, kind of tall? We went out for two months, but it didn't really work out. Then at the beginning of last year I went on a few dates with Shelley Walker and Cathy-Ann Summers; I think you and Cathy-Ann had the same chemistry class, and Shelley's on the Council. And then Amber became my dance partner."

The three ducks in front of him had been joined by a mother and her ducklings. They circled each other playfully, their noises of delight barely making their way to Link's ears. He took another breath, and then went on. "Nothing happened with Shelley or Cathy-Ann, second base with Becky, and – and I went all the way with Susan and Amber."

All at once it hit him how much he _needed_ to look at Tracy, _needed_ to see how she war reacting. He tore his eyes from the pond and turned to face her. Her hands were gripping each other very tightly; she sat looking down at her lap with an unreadable expression on her face. Long, dark hair obscured his view of her eyes, and he wondered if she was crying. Ever so slightly, he could see her head bobbing in a small nod. Link wanted badly to touch her, to put a hand on her knee or hold her hand like he would have normally. Unsure if that was acceptable, he kept his hands to himself.

"Tracy." Her head jerked up; brown eyes shot up to meet his, wide and surprised by the use of her full name. It might have been the first time he had ever called her 'Tracy' to her face; he couldn't be sure. "I – I just need you to know that I regret it. It just… always seemed like a good idea at the time, but I promise you: I have _never_ felt anywhere near the same way for any of them as I do for you. You're so special, Trace, everything I have with you is special. And – and I just wish that I could have saved that first for you."

Link waited, tension-filled, for her response; but when it came, it was not what he had expected. He saw now that her eyes were quite dry, although they seemed dreadfully sad. Tracy looked at him, and it felt as though she could see inside of him, see everything that he was and wasn't, could see all of the good and bad things he had ever done. After a moment, she glanced away again.

"You mean that." It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyways. "I knew. I mean, I'm glad you told me – but I already knew, just like I knew you've … you know… before." Her right hand moved abruptly, and for a second he thought it was going to reach over and curl around his own. Instead, it continued upward to twist around a large piece of hair, twirling the strands around her fingers in a nervous gesture.

"But that's not why I asked," she went on, voice catching. She met his gaze again, and he couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. "I love you, Link. And I'm just… just _scared_. I want to be… everything… for you, and I'm frightened that I can't… _compare_ with the other girls you've –" She cut off, gesturing vaguely in the air with her free hand. She took a deep breath. "I want to be good for you, Link, I do."

Link stared at her, struck dumb. He tried to say something, but his voice wasn't working properly. He tried to think of a way to tell her how sometimes looking at her made it difficult to breathe, or of the searing heat he felt in his stomach when she did something so, so sexy and didn't realize it. How he admired her and loved her and wanted so badly to protect her from everyone, to keep her innocent forever – and at the same time, wanted to be the one to take that innocence away. How he'd spend great chunks of time thinking about how _lucky_ he was, how unbelievably lucky that he could be the only one to kiss her and touch her and be _there _when she needed him and no one else could fix what was wrong. Tried to think of a way to tell her just how much he _wanted_ her – but that he could wait forever, because that was how long he wanted to be with her.

But there weren't enough words, so he didn't say anything.

Instead he kissed her; it had to be allowed, because he couldn't wait any longer. Partly because she was so amazingly _Tracy_ – but mostly because he couldn't stand being so full of feeling and love and emotion for another second, it was so overwhelming. When he pulled away, both of their breathing was laboured.

"I love you, you know that?" he murmured. "And everything we have right now means more to me than anything I've had with anyone else. All right?"

She nodded, smiling up at him – and jerked suddenly backward, looking embarrassed. For a moment he was confused, and opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong – when he saw an old man walking along the path beside them, walking a small terrier. He was giving them a very funny look. They waited for him to turn a corner before Tracy laughed softly.

"We're not exactly in private, are we?" she asked, getting to her feet. Link followed suit, self-consciously dusting off his pants where they had touched the weather-worn bench. He looked at her uncertainly, feeling slightly panicked; was he supposed to say something else? Was there anything else he _could_ say?

But Tracy looked perfectly reassured. She took hold of his hand again, and began to lead him down the same path as before.

"I've always wanted a terrier," she said in a laid-back, casual voice. "Have you ever had any pets?"

The feelings of panic began to ebb away, and he squeezed her hand gratefully. It was another thing he loved about her: whenever he felt overwhelmed, she always understood.

"Well, I used to have a cat named Specs…" he started. They walked on, beginning to swing their linked hands with every step. It was awkward at first; their hands seemed to want to go forward at different times, and somehow fingers kept getting in the way. It took a few more laps around the pond to get back into the steady rhythm from before, and that was okay. They had time – the rest of the evening, the rest of the year, the rest of their lives – to figure everything out.


	6. Waiting Room Blues

**A/N:** Hello, guys and dolls. :) So, the main feature of this chapter is the developing of a platonic (non-romantic) relationship between Penny and Link. These two characters very rarely interact in the film, so I though it would be interesting to throw them together and see what happened. Remember, this chapter takes place AFTER "Affirmation"; if you haven't read that story, I recommend you do so now. There's also an allusion to "The Red Shoes" by Hans Christian Andersen that becomes quite important.

If you read this chapter, it would be lovely if you could take a few moments to send in a review. It means a whole lot to me, and receiving feedback makes writing further chapters a whole lot easier and quicker. Thank you!

* * *

When Link walked into the dentist's waiting room and saw Penny Pingleton perched on one of the grubby couches, his immediate gut reaction was to turn and head right back out the door. His whole body had already jerked instinctively to twist away before he caught himself, feeling like a spineless idiot. Penny, who was apparently absorbed in a magazine, did not notice.

_Think about Tracy_, Link scolded himself internally. _Think about what she'd say if she saw you turn tail and run from her best friend – and for no good reason, to boot!_

It wasn't that Link didn't _like_ Penny – no, that wasn't the issue. He didn't know enough about her to have much of an opinion at all. Penny and Seaweed had come as part of a packaged deal when he and Tracy started going steady. There had been no issue with Seaweed; they'd been peripheral acquaintances because of the show beforehand, and taking the next step to becoming friends had been easy. Seaweed was fun loving and playful, and the pair had been able to relate to each other surprisingly easily. They'd even gone to a Baltimore Colts game together when Mr. Larkin had received some extra tickets through work, and had spent the majority of the game complaining about how much more interesting sports would be if there was dancing or singing involved.

Penny, though – Link wasn't sure he'd ever exchanged more than a few words with her. They were completely different; aside from their mutual interest in Tracy's well being, there didn't seem to be anything the two could talk about. Despite having gone on several double dates with her present, he didn't really know the tall blond-haired girl in the slightest.

He wasn't afraid of her – not really. Not beyond the dread of having to suffer through an awkward, stunted conversation with someone he had nothing in common with. It was the same anxiety that drove people to slip into the lavatory when someone they only half-knew caught their eye in a hallway, or cross the street unnecessarily when one of their father's work associates came shuffling toward them.

Or maybe no one else did that. Maybe it was just he – Link Larkin the brainless, selfish coward – who ducked behind pyramids of tinned beans at the A&P when lighting technicians whose names he didn't know came up from the frozen foods aisle. Feeling bolstered with a raw desire to prove himself, Link stepped out of the doorway and into the dimly lit waiting room. He had an appointment, after all. There was no need to run away because of some stupid nervous habit; after all, he was Link Larkin, local celebrity; he could certainly handle sitting beside his girlfriend's best friend for ten minutes.

Full of renewed swagger, Link strode right past the room's other occupants – including a shabby-looking old man and a woman with two small children – and up to the blonde teenager.

"Why, hello Miss Penny," he said as he halted in front of her. She looked up in surprise, and he saw the stick of her ever-present lollypop jutting out from between her pink lips. In the past he would have used an endearment – darlin', babe, anything really. He had discovered, though, after he'd started going steady with Tracy three months ago, that saying things like that to other girls now made him feel squirmy and uncomfortable. It had never been like that with Susan or Amber. "Mind if I join you?"

"Mmm," she mumbled brightly, seeming to forget that her mouth was full of cherry-flavoured candy. He took the noise as a yes, and smoothly lowered himself into the seat next to her.

There was a moment's pause once he'd settled himself in the chair: awkwardness hung heavily as Penny looked sideways at him, herself seemingly unaffected. Now was about when Tracy would chirp up with some cheery anecdote, or Seaweed would wrap an arm around his girl's shoulders and tell them all the latest in the 'Mama Maybelle's secret sweetheart' mystery, his voice smooth as liquid chocolate. But neither of them was here.

Penny seemed content to sit with her usual dazed and happy expression spread across her face – but Link felt a mounting pressure to say _something_, _anything_ to fill the silence.

"So," he burst out at last. "The dentist, then, is it?"

Well, it was better than silence. But not by much.

This time, Penny seemed to remember to remove her lollypop before speaking. She reached up and plucked it from between her lips, then nodded at him. "Yup. I have to come here a lot; today it's for my cavities." She said all of this very cheerily, and grinned afterward. Link didn't let himself ponder the irony of eating candy in a dentist's office before continuing.

"Well, that's a right shame." Her grin didn't falter for a second as she nodded again.

"What are you here for, Link?" she asked.

"Oh, just a check-up," he replied, and then inwardly cursed himself; he'd unintentionally ended that subject before it could even begin. Frantically, he scanned for another topic of conversation. After a second, his eyes fell on the issue of _Vogue_ that lay open on her lap. "Are you… interested in fashion, then?"

The change Penny underwent was immediate. Her eyes, which seconds before had seemed glazed and perfunctory, lit up with attentiveness. She sat up straighter, and turned in her seat so that she was facing him properly. "Well, I suppose you could say that – yes, I am!" She began to use the lollypop in her hand to gesticulate at the magazine spread. "It says here that 'velvet and round-toed shoes will be the must-haves of the fall', but I don't know if I'll be able to afford any velvet fabric. Maybe I'll ask Seaweed if his mother has any old dressing gowns she wouldn't mind giving up…" she trailed off pensively.

This was news to Link. "You… sew?"

Penny nodded, still looking excited. "Sure do! My Auntie Anne taught me how before she ran off to Venezuela. I made this," she gestured down at her flower-print dress, "out of an old bed sheet."

Upon closer inspection, Link could clearly see that, yes, that dress _had_ once been a bed sheet: the frills at the hem must have been a bed skirt at some point. He was half-disbelieving that anyone in their right mind would wear something that had once adorned a bed, and half-impressed at the skill such a project must have taken. He expressed only the latter sentiment, for which she thanked him.

"You know, Link," said Penny, seemingly emboldened from the discussion of something she was passionate about. "Tracy and me, we watched you on TV every day of junior year. But I always wondered; how long have you been on that show, anyway?" She popped her lollypop back into her mouth to listen.

"Three years," he answered automatically, then hesitated. Penny was a friend of Tracy's; being honest was probably the wisest choice. Still, it took a lot to wrench the story out: no matter how many times he told it, it still felt desperately embarrassing. "Well… well, sorta. I mean – technically, only two and a half years. When I first applied to be on the show, I was too young – only fourteen, you know? Corny – Corny was real nice about it, though. Said I had potential. He let me come work at the station as a runner, and I got to dance if one of the other guys was sick. So… I guess only two and a half years," he finished lamely.

Penny didn't laugh, only bobbed her head in acknowledgement. Link was relieved; if she had even so much as snickered, he probably would have made up some phoney excuse and dashed out the door.

"I' muft be fcary, danfing an' finging on TV every day," she garbled, once again seemingly forgetting that her mouth was full of lollypop. Link didn't mind so much this time.

"No – not really. Not anymore. It used to be, though, when I'd just started. But…" He faltered. It seemed impossible to describe it to someone who didn't already _know_. Whenever he'd spoken about it with Tracy, he hadn't even needed to finish his sentences: she was a dancer, a singer. She understood. "But it's like, once you start you can't stop. If they cancelled the show tomorrow, I don't know what I'd do. It's like..." Inexplicably, Link's mind flashed abruptly back to a childhood memory; a late-night story read aloud at bedtime. "It's like the Red Shoes."

The lollypop fell from Penny's mouth onto the issue of _Vogue_ as her mouth fell open in surprise. He could see the bright red syrup begin to soak through the glossy page, but she didn't seem to care.

"The Red Shoes?" asked Penny incredulously. Link was shocked to notice that there was something off in her voice, an uncertainty that he had never seen in her before. "My – my mother used to read that story to me all the time when I was little."

"Really?" he asked, surprised. For a second, he was overwhelmed with the memory of his dad coming home from the bar a few weeks ago, the hopeless way he'd cried out his ex-wife's name over and over until Link had put him to bed. The feeling passed, though; he focused on the memories of what had happened afterward, Tracy's gentle words and the way she'd held him so close, they way she'd made him feel safe and warm and taken care of. God, he loved her.

He remembered where he was, and continued. "My mother used to read that story to me a whole lot, too." The smallest of chuckles escaped from him. "You know, I used to think it was the scariest story in the world: the idea of someone having their feet chopped off and watching them dance away scared the bejeesus out of me."

It was Penny's turn to laugh, but hers was hollow, empty of any real mirth. "I think mine always meant it to come off in a much more 'don't become a red-shoed harlot' kind of way." She closed the magazine, either not noticing or not caring that the red lollypop was still trapped between its pages. She remained silent for another moment before continuing. "It's like I'm not even her daughter anymore.

Link froze, mentally scrambling to dredge up everything Seaweed and Tracy had ever mentioned about Penny's home life. _My baby girl don't got it so easy back home_. And, _Penny's mom can be such a… such a…horrible lady!_ He glanced around the waiting room, but none of the other patients were taking any notice of them.

But Penny wasn't finished. "It's like… it's like I'm some sort of tenant. She never talks to me now, or looks at me, or anything. I have to make my own clothes because she won't buy me my own, and my mouth's been hurting for over a month; I've just been too scared to ask for money to come here. I'm not angry about it, though: I'm too sad to be angry. And… and too lonely to be sad."

She looked over at him as though only just noticing that he was there. "I can't tell Seaweed or Tracy," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "They'd be too concerned, and there's nothing they can do, so there's no point."

Penny blinked, and seemed to come back to herself slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, in a somewhat strangled voice. She seemed to be waiting for him to laugh, but Link didn't think he'd ever heard anything less funny in his life. After a pause, she tried to resume her dazed smile from before; all it did was make her look sadder. "I don't even know why I said that."

"No," said Link, his own voice surprising him. "No, I get it. Talking to someone who isn't close can be… easier, right?" He didn't know how to say what he wanted to say: it wasn't a proposition he'd ever had to make to anyone before. "If… if you ever want to talk, Penny —"

"Mr. Larkin, please. Is there a Mr. Larkin here?"

Both he and Penny's heads spun in the direction of the voice; a tall-haired woman in a white uniform was standing at the waiting room door expectantly, clipboard in hand. After a pause he remembered himself.

"Oh, that's… that's me," he said, all in a rush. He tried to catch Penny's eyes, but she was looking determinedly down at the floor.

"Please come with me, sir."

The assistant shuffled him out of the room, and Link went reluctantly. As he shuffled down the off-white hallway, he thought of Penny, with her unrelenting smiles and upbeat behaviour the entire time he had known her. He thought of how desperately sad she had been just now, of how alone she must have felt for the past months. For a brief moment, as he climbed into the tilted dentist's chair and waited for Doctor Green to appear, it crossed his mind that maybe he and Penny Pingleton weren't quite so different after all.


	7. Induction

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for your awesome response to the last chapter – what a treat, I was so excited to read all of your feedback. In response, I have for you an extra long chapter: a little more than double the usual length. Yay!

So this is where the Snapshots start moving away from being so close together timeline-wise, and start occurring after larger lapses of time. This chapter takes place two months after "Affirmation", so about a month and a half after "Waiting Room Blues". In it, we finally get to meet the much-mentioned Mr. Larkin. I'm vey excited!

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Tracy leaned forward on her chair, angling her face upward so that her mirrored reflection was clearly visible. She raised the tube of lipstick to her lips and spread the pale shade evenly across them, then dabbed lightly at the corners of her mouth to ensure an even application. Tonight was an important night, and she couldn't very well go prancing into the Larkin household with lip colour globbing all over the place. She gritted her teeth to make sure that they, too, were lipstick free. 

It had taken another two months after the incident at her house for Link to propose a meeting between Tracy and his father. The suggestion had come rather unexpectedly after a Thursday evening stroll in mid-November. The two of them had just returned from a hand-holding exploration of the nicer neighbourhoods around town, both bundled up in coats and scarves to block out the chill in the air. Standing on the doorstep of Tracy's house, hands prickling from the cold and misty breath rising into the air, Link had suggested that Tracy come over to the his house for dinner the following Saturday.

His words had tumbled out a bit quicker than intended, and his cheeks had turned a light shade of pink. He had looked at her expectantly, inserting swiftly that his father had been feeling a lot better recently, and that he thought he could handle the meeting. Relief flooded his eyes when she assured him that she would love to come over. After a smile and a quick kiss goodnight, he had made a hasty departure.

The proposition had been sweet, shy, and – in Tracy's opinion – well overdue.

She mentally chastised herself for that stray thought as she slipped her earrings into place. Ever since Link had arrived on her doorstep, upset and vulnerable, she had not spoken about his family situation unless he brought it up first. Every once and a while, in the middle of an altogether different topic, Link would blurt out a sentence about his dad's alcoholism or his mom in California. Afterward, he would allow himself a few more sentences before he got uncomfortable and changed the topic.

Tracy had noted, though, that the time he spent talking was getting longer – and the awkward subject changes we becoming fewer and fewer. She was proud of him for breaking through the emotional wall he had built up over so many years – and honoured that he was coming to trust her all by himself, without any prodding or nagging.

She sat back and took a look at her reflection. Her reflection looked back, brown eyes delicately lined and long, dark hair framing her face. She smiled, lips pristine.

Showtime.

* * *

The bus ride over to Link's house was short but slightly awkward; she was by far the nicest-dressed person aboard, and people kept sending her curious looks. She had convinced Link at rehearsal earlier that it was best if she could arrange her own ride over to his house, and then he could drive her home. That way, he would be able to play the part of the host when she arrived. Link had protested at first, looking uncomfortable at the notion that their relationship constant of him driving her places was being taken away. However, he had eventually agreed. 

Tracy got off the bus and began to follow the directions her boyfriend had given her. As she walked, the houses gradually became nicer, the gardens more manicured. Her breath rose into the air in front of her, and she rubbed her hands together: even with her heavy coat, it was extremely chilly. She stopped in front of a fairly large, attractive-looking house with a somewhat wilder lawn than the ones on either side of it. She double-checked the address and, finding it to be correct, made the short walk down the front path to the door. After taking a steadying breath, she knocked.

There was silence for a few moments before Tracy could hear the padding of feet on the other side of the door. It swung open to reveal Link, who was dressed in a green-striped sweater, slacks – and a white cooking apron.

Link leaned against the doorframe, the epitome of cool and suave; he seemed to have completely forgotten the presence of the apron. He made an appreciative noise as he very pointedly trailed his eyes from the top of her head down to her high-heeled shoes and back up to meet her eyes.

"Very nice," he said, bending down to give her a peck on the lips. "Lookin' gorgeous, babe."

"Why thank you, chef Link," she replied, looking him quickly up and down. "How kind of you to say."

A pink tinge appeared in Link's cheeks, and the smooth act crumpled at once. He tugged at the apron's fastenings self-consciously; Tracy giggled.

"No, no, leave it on. Don't be silly." He lowered his hands, but still looked a bit bashful. "May I come in?"

"Yeah, of course."

He guided her inside and, always the gentleman, rushed to remove and hang up her coat. When he turned around she was straightening her frock, and he gave her another look – but this one was not the practiced eying up of a high school heartthrob. He had warned her to dress conservatively, and she had; the hem of her dress fell far past her knees and it barely showed any skin at all. But the way he was looking at her, she felt like something straight out of an inappropriate daydream. Tracy fidgeted under his gaze.

"Wow," he said, sounding struck dumb. "You, uh. Look good."

They were saved by the arrival of Link's father, who turned the corner into the entrance hall at that very moment. Link snapped out of his trance at once. He took a steadying breath, looking slightly nervous, and introduced them.

"Tracy, this is John Larkin. Dad, this is Miss Tracy Turnblad."

Mr. Larkin looked a great deal like his son. They shared the same dark hair, though Mr. Larkin's was in a respectable crew cut. He was tall, thin, and possessed brown eyes with slight creases lurking in the corners. In his day, Tracy thought, he must have been quite a handsome man. She couldn't help but notice that he looked slightly pale and gaunt, as though he had been sick recently.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Mr. Larkin, his voice warm but gravelly as he reached out to shake her hand.

"Likewise, sir," she replied, accepting it.

Link shuffled the two of them down the long hallway (which didn't seem to have very many pictures on the walls), through the living room, and into an expansive dining room. The dining room table was very large, but only three places had been set. Mr. Larkin took the seat at the head of the table, and Link pulled Tracy's chair back so she could take the seat on his left. Tracy glanced down the long table and the many empty spaces that remained. She wondered briefly what it would be like for the two of them to eat breakfast at this table. Did they sit at either end, or next to each other? Did they even eat breakfast at the same time?

Tracy suddenly realized that Link left the room some time ago – probably to fetch dinner from the kitchen. Mr. Larkin was staring at her contemplatively, but did not say anything. She searched frantically for something to fill the silence.

"So tell me, Mr. Larkin," she started tentatively. "What's your profession?"

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as though surprised that she had spoken.

"I work in finances."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be anything she could say to that. She tried to think of another question, but he got there first.

"This television program you and my son are on," he began. "Could you tell me something about it? I know it's a dance show, but I'm always at work when it comes on."

Tracy opened her mouth to respond, but her brain had gone completely empty. There was so much to know about the Corny Collins show, so many stories, such a large portion that spread over into her relationship with this man's son that her mind couldn't fathom him not knowing all about it. She couldn't think of a place to start, let alone a middle or an ending.

"Well," she started, feeling rather stupid. "It's a bit of a long story."

"Oh. All right," Mr. Larkin replied. He looked down at the table, seeming to take this as her answer.

Just as Tracy was beginning to wonder desperately when Link would come back, he walked back into the dining room holding a large salad bowl and serving spoons. The apron had disappeared, and Tracy suspected he had rid himself of it as soon as he had entered the kitchen. He placed them in the centre of the table and shot her an encouraging grin from behind his father's back.

"Dinner's almost ready," he said busily. "I'll be back out in two seconds." And with that, he puttered back into the kitchen leaving the two of them alone again. She had known that Link had learned how to cook after his mother had left; he'd told her once, offhandedly. But she had never thought as far as imagining him inside an actual kitchen, bustling around preparing meals. Tracy was briefly overwhelmed – despite the gender difference and minus over one hundred pounds of weight – at how much Link Larkin currently resembled her mother.

"It's very strange," she said absently, forgetting that Mr. Larkin was still sitting right next to her, "to see Link acting domestically. He's usually so slick around school and on the show."

_This_ got a response; Mr. Larkin barked out a loud laugh at her words. She jumped, startled, and looked at him.

"Oh, he tries to be all suave around school, does he?" Mr. Larkin asked, his brown eyes twinkling deviously. He leaned forward in his seat. "Miss Tracy, I promise you that no matter how he may act when the cameras are rolling, my son is about as slick as a pair of fuzzy slippers."

She giggled at his words, enjoying how _alive_ Mr. Larkin appeared for this first time since she had met him. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and calling her _Miss Tracy_ had almost been affectionate. She was struck again by the strong resemblance between father and son.

"Don't I know it," she said back, laugher still pulling at her words. "He's a big softie underneath all that hair grease."

Mr. Larkin chuckled, and Tracy felt a rush of satisfaction at making him laugh.

"Miss Tracy, the stories I could tell you about Link's childhood –"

"_Dad_!" Link had reappeared in the doorway, looking highly embarrassed and holding two large serving bowls. He did appear, however, to be relieved that some kind of conversation had broken out in his absence.

Tracy put on an innocent expression, widening her eyes at her boyfriend and sitting as tall as she could in her chair – which, admittedly, wasn't very tall at all.

"Oh, hello Link," she said unassumingly, tilting her head to one side. "Your dad was about to tell me all sorts of humiliating stories from your youth. Would you like to join us?"

Mr. Larkin barked out another loud laugh and clapped his palm onto the table in mirth. Link's face had gone a very deep red, and he appeared astonished how openly responsive his father was being.

"You've got yourself a keeper, my boy!" shouted Mr. Larkin gleefully, a large smile spreading across his lined face. "Now, bring on the main course, that's a good lad."

* * *

Forty minutes later and the three of them had demolished dinner, even with the enormous portions of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that Link had doled onto their plates. Tracy had been starving from coming straight from a Saturday rehearsal with no dinner, but would have eaten the large amounts of food even if she hadn't been extremely hungry. She had been shocked upon her first bite of meatloaf at just how good a cook Link was – and had made such an exclamation out loud, much to Mr. Larkin's delighted laughter. Tracy had never thought about it, but she supposed that if Link's mother had left four years ago, he had been cooking for both occupants of the house consistently since he was thirteen years old. 

Dessert had been plain strawberry ice cream, which all of them had managed to consume despite being very full already. Link had managed to turn the discussion away from his own childhood and onto broader, less potentially embarrassing topics such as their education and life after high school. The conversation had been nothing like the teasing chatter that normally broke out over the Turnblad residence, but it had certainly not been bad.

Mr. Larkin cleared his throat, dabbing his napkin at the corners of his mouth for stray ice cream remains.

"Now, Miss Tracy," he began, catching her eye. "I'm sure I've got some old photo albums lying around; would you like to see some baby pictures of our Link here?"

"Dad, _no_," groaned Link, looking mortified.

"Oh, come on, boy; she's the only girl you've ever brought home, I'm allowed to spoil her." Mr. Larkin gave sent her a wink that was very much like his son's, only he looked a little bit more weary around the edges as he did so. "Whaddya say, Miss Tracy?"

Tracy giggled at the wink, but felt something flutter in her stomach. _Our Link, his and mine. The only girl he's ever brought home._ "I'd love to."

* * *

"And this one here is Link in his overalls with our old cat Specs," Mr. Larkin announced proudly as he indicated the faded black and white photo. "Link was about three years old, I think. He sure loved those overalls, Miss Tracy: I remember he once refused to take them off for five whole days!" 

The two of them shared a light laugh before moving onto the next photo. All three of them had migrated to the living room after taking their dishes into the kitchen, and Mr. Larkin had brought out two musty photo albums from his bedroom. Some pictures were dated and others were not, but all of them showed a younger Link Larkin in various stages of life. The real Link sat in mute horror on his father's other side. He seemed to think that steadfastly ignoring the situation was the best way to deal his mounting embarrassment: his cheeks were pinker than Tracy had ever seen them before.

Link as a small child was sickeningly adorable. And even though Tracy could pick out his individual features amid the puppy fat and toothy grins, the idea of Link going through all the phases of youth was practically too odd to grasp. She'd of course known that he had grown up – how stupid would she have been to have ever thought otherwise? But in some corner of her mind, it had always seemed that Link had appeared into the world as a fully-grown heartthrob, complete with wink and killer smile. Link Larkin the Charmer as a seven-year-old with mud all down his front seemed almost absurd.

Mr. Larkin appeared as a younger man in some of the photos, although he seemed to have been the person taking a lot of them. Tracy could tell at once where Link had gotten his patented grin from: it appeared frequently on Mr. Larkin's face, light and easy and contrasting against the severity of his crew cut.

And although Link's father gave each picture an explanation, there was a recurring figure that he never seemed to mention. An achingly beautiful woman, her dark hair in old-fashioned curls, haunted a great many of the images. She appeared holding a baby Link, and standing at the oven of the Larkin kitchen while a small Link played at her feet, and later in stiffly posed family portraits. Her eyes were as pale as her son's; they stood out in each picture she was in, drawing Tracy's eyes straight to her. She seemed desperately sad, even when she was smiling.

Mr. Larkin flipped the page, and a small scrap of paper flew off the album and onto the floor. Neither of the men seemed to notice.

"And here I am holding baby Link for the very first time. I'd volunteered to go fight the war in Europe even though Alli… even though Link's mother was pregnant. I was wounded after five months, though: see the cast? And look at that uniform. Good and dapper, that's what it was."

Tracy nodded, and then bent forward so that she could reach the paper that was lying facedown on the ground. She was about to insert it back into the book when the words 'Certificate of Birth' caught her eye. She turned it over and read:

**_Certificate of Birth for  
Matthew Lincoln James Larkin  
January 26th, 1945_**

There were more words, but her mind seemed to have stopped. _Matthew_?

Link must have noticed her staring transfixed at the birth certificate, because he seemed to decide that enough was enough.

"Thanks, dad," he said quickly, rising to his feet. "But I think I'm going to show Tracy my room now." He held out his hand to help her up, which she accepted, the foreign name still echoing over and over in her mind as she replaced the paper covertly. Mr. Larkin smiled up at them, looking a lot less pale than he had when Tracy had first arrived.

"All right, son. If you don't mind, I think I'm going to look over these old things a while longer." He gestured to the album in his lap. "It was lovely to meet you, Miss Tracy. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't," she said, mind still spinning. "It was nice to meet you, too."

Link's hand was warm around hers for the silent walk to his bedroom. They had to walk down several hallways and up a flight of stairs to get there, and though the house was large it also seemed to be very empty. Dust lingered in the corners, and most of the doors along the hallway were closed. They looked as though they hadn't been opened in quite a long time.

When they finally got to Link's room, he ushered her inside and then shut door behind him, leaning against it as though having escaped from some great horror. She raised her eyebrow at the closed door behind him: her own mother would _certainly_ never have allowed that at her house.

"Don't worry," reassured Link, interpreting her look. "He wouldn't think about checking." It was agreeable news, and Tracy couldn't explain the distant pang of sadness she felt upon hearing it.

He looked at her from his place against the door, looking almost nervous as though waiting for her opinion. He was biting his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry about the album," he burst out suddenly. "I can't even believe he did that. And I know the house is a bit dirty, we don't really clean as often as we should. And –"

Tracy put her hand over his mouth to silence him and stared straight into his agitated eyes.

"I like your dad a whole lot. Dinner was swell, you look dashing in an apron, and your house is very impressive. How's that?"

She could feel him smile, relieved, against her hand. A devious look appeared on the part of his face she could see, and she suddenly felt something wet dart out against her palm.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, jerking her hand back as he sniggered. "Link Larkin, you _licked_ me." The grin on his face didn't waver.

"Oh, because you've really got a problem with my spit." Link was having fun now, grabbing handfuls of her skirt and tugging her up against him. He leaned in for a kiss, but shouting his name had reminded her of something.

"So, _Matthew_," said Tracy, purposefully stressing the name she had seen on his birth certificate. "Why didn't you ever tell me that 'Link' wasn't your proper name?"

Link looked momentarily sheepish, but the expression on his face quickly turned to nonchalance. He grinned at her and shrugged.

"Well, darlin', I haven't gone by 'Matthew' in a real long time. I don't really consider it my name." At her expectant look, he continued. "First grade, I walk into my classroom and find out that there're four other Matthews – _four_. I hardly wanted to be Matthew number five, so I thought I'd use another name. James wouldn't work; there were already two boys called that. So I figured I'd use 'Lincoln', but make it less stuffy. There weren't any other Links, and I haven't met one yet. I asked my parents to use the new name at home, and I've been Link ever since." He shrugged, as though this were no big deal.

Tracy stared at him, slightly at a loss: it felt rather as though the world had been tugged out from under her. She wasn't sure what the proper procedure was upon discovering that one's boyfriend of three months had never bothered to mention his first name.

She didn't have time to reflect on it any further, though, because Link had decided to follow through on his original impulse. His hands were still curled in her skirt, so he pulled her right up against him and kissed her soundly. Tracy let her eyes fall shut and wound her arms lazily around his shoulders.

Link took a firm step forward, throwing her off balance; she tightened her grip around him and took a hasty step back to avoid falling over. He stepped again, but this time she was ready – they shuffled together, step by step, as though in a very crude impersonation of dance. Tracy realized too late what his objective had been. When the backs of her calves bumped against a solid mass of mattress, she squeaked in surprise and tumbled back onto the bed, forcefully dragging Link down with her.

They landed with a thump, the bedspread rumpling immediately as they landed side by side. There was a moment of silence before Tracy heard Link's snigger coming from beside her.

"Very funny," she said weakly, reaching out and smacking him lightly with the back of her hand. He sidled up to her, still chuckling faintly, and wrapped a sweatered arm across the upward curve of her stomach. He laid his head across the softness of her bust and nuzzled softly, then gave her a tight squeeze of a hug. Tracy couldn't help feeling like an enormous stuffed toy.

"He really liked you, you know," Link said quietly, voice coming out muffled against her chest. "Don't think I've seen him that chipper in a long while."

"I liked him, too," she answered back, her fingers trailing over the back of his neck. _He showed me a whole other part of your life, a piece of you that I didn't know about. I'll always appreciate that._ She didn't say the words that were on the tip of her tongue, choosing instead to sigh contentedly. Link's head rose and fell in time with her breath.

"Any other secrets you've been keeping from me, Mr. Larkin?" she asked, her fingers now brushing over Link's stiff hair. "Evil twin brother, you're in league with the Russians… favourite colour?"

"Wasn't a secret," he mumbled, then angled his head in order to be as close to looking her in the eye as possible without extracting himself from her bosom. "My favourite colour is blue. Favourite food is roast chicken, and I really don't like TV dinners." He propped himself up, lifted his head from her chest, and was gave her a very fixed look as he spoke.

"I tried to play the trumpet in elementary school, but I couldn't do that lip thing and had to quit." He moved so that he was lying over her, weight supported on his elbows and the legs that were now on either side of her, still pointedly holding her gaze. "Boats makes me nervous, I used to bite my nails, and when I was five years old I wanted to be Bing Crosby when I grew up."

Tracy laughed, but the sound came out much more breathlessly than normal. It was very difficult to concentrate with Link lying on top of her, staring at her like that, and leaning in closer, with his lips skimming over hers and _god he smells good –_

She gasped sharply as he moved from her lips to her throat, pressing a soft kiss against the sensitive skin there.

"Your turn, baby doll," she heard him whisper, his warm breath tickling against her neck.

_Not fair_.

"My birthday's on April 9th." She tried to calm her uneven breathing, but Link nipped at the juncture between neck and collar and she unravelled again. "I – I used to have a pet dog named Rolly, but he r-ran away. I'm –" Her breath hitched as his hand drifted up and down her forearm, the combined sensations overwhelming. "—I'm named for my grandmother, Tracy Hodges, my momma's m-mother. I… I…"

But she couldn't stand it any longer. As Link barely brushed his lips over hers again, every muscle screaming from restraining herself, she arched up against him and pressed her lips against his in a frenzied, open-mouthed kiss. He responded immediately, pressing her back into the pillow, kissing her back without restraint.

She lifted her both her hands to skim across either side of his waist, back and forth, before placing them on the small of his back. Her fingers drifted along the bottom of his sweater, daringly edging up underneath the fabric to feel the warm, smooth skin of his back. Link made a hoarse, desperate noise against her lips that sounded like it came from the back of his throat and kissed her with renewed heat.

He jerked his hips upward suddenly, wrenching the lower half of his body away from her. Addled, Tracy opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but soon found herself silenced again. His tongue was velvet against hers, pulling back only to bite gently on her bottom lip.

Encouraged by his responses, she swept her fingers across his now-exposed skin once more. She could feel gooseflesh beginning to rise there, but whether it was from the coldness in the air or her touches she didn't know. Slowly, and feeling very brave indeed, Tracy slid her hands up under his shirt once more – and began to tug it up over his head.

Link reacted at once, putting his weight on his legs so that she could pull the shirt free of his arms and head and then toss it absently off the bed. He sat up for a moment and looked down at her, rough gasps making his chest heave, before leaning down and catching her lips in another breathless kiss. Tracy sighed against him, her hands gliding over the smooth, bare flesh of his upper back. _This_ was new and scary and _amazing_, being able to run her hands up over his shoulders and down his arms and back again, all the while eliciting little gasps and shivers. The few seconds that she had seen him without a shirt had not been forgotten, either; he was slim and sculpted from years of dancing, bare skin looking just as perfect as it felt against her fingers.

She wondered for a moment if the next step was for her own shirt to come off. Link pulled her especially tight against him, and she thought dreamily for a moment that removing her shirt might not be a half-bad idea – before realizing suddenly that she was wearing a _dress_. A very _conservative _dress. Tracy marvelled that Link could be satisfied with the very small amount of skin she was showing – after all, she certainly hadn't been satisfied with his – when he pulled way from her suddenly.

He looked unbelievably attractive, lips wet and hair mussed and a slightly dazed expression on his face. His breath was coming in large gulps, and he had a look of severe restraint about him.

"I should probably get you home to your folks," he murmured, voice unsteady, not meeting her eyes. Tracy almost protested, but quickly understood; he_ needed_ to stop, he_ needed _to take her home while he was still in control. She kissed him quickly on the mouth and cheek – to get what she could – and then nodded up at him.

He crawled off her, then hopped off of his bed to find his sweater. Tracy enjoyed the sight of Link shirtless while she still could, watching him as she lay dishevelled and breathing heavily on the bed. After he successfully found the shirt and tugged it on, he walked over to her and offered her his hand, smiling almost shyly. She accepted his hand, allowed Link to pull her to her feet, straightened her dress and followed him out the door.

The house was quiet and dark, and she could immediately tell that Mr. Larkin had already gone to bed. They only stopped once to retrieve Tracy's coat from the coat rack before walking quickly out the door toward the black Cadillac parked stylishly in the driveway. As Link opened the passenger door for her, thoughts and feelings catapulted through Tracy's mind – but she suppressed them gently. She had all night to think, but only a few minutes to sit beside her boy in understanding silence as they cut through the darkness.

The promise of _later_ hanging between them like an old friend, the pair pulled out of the driveway and into the night.


End file.
